And When I'm Gone
by RemyMcKwakker
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is seen near John after the Fall, and John is killed. This sets Sherlock off on a self-destructive path of revenge.


**And When I'm Gone  
~RemyMcKwakker**

* * *

_And when I'm gone  
Just carry on  
Don't mourn  
Rejoice every time you hear the sound of my voice  
Just know that I'm looking down on you, smiling  
And I didn't feel a thing, so baby don't feel no pain  
Just smile back_

* * *

**Week One**

Ever since childhood, Sherlock Holmes had known that he would be getting up to strange things as he grew older. He had rifled through trash cans looking for evidence; he had started fights and pretend fires for information; he had dodged crooks and mercenaries, bested them all; he had even once dressed up as a fat old cat lady to gain information.

He hadn't once thought that he'd be attending his own funeral, though.

It was overcast, the sky a dull steely gray with gathered clouds threatening rain. It wasn't like a cliché funeral from the movies – this was typical London weather. It didn't bother him, never had. The small group of people in black didn't really bother him either. He knew that none of them had really known him, except for John and maybe Mrs. Hudson. The only reason the rest had shown up was out of courtesy – and respect, maybe.

He was dressed in black too, his hair cut short and covered with a warm hat. He had worn some extra layers of clothes for a chubby appearance, and had painted a few of his teeth black to make them look like they were missing. He wasn't planning on speaking to anyone, but just in case someone asked – and they would – he had a story ready.

He almost forgot it, though, the minute he saw John. The doctor was standing in front of the fresh hole in the ground, his arms wrapped around himself extremely tightly. Upon closer inspection Sherlock could see he was shivering and trying very hard not to. Sherlock doubted it was the weather.

John's face wasn't visible from where he was standing, but it was clear that he was miserable. The man's very posture, his entire body language screamed that he wasn't doing well, not at all, despite Sherlock's hopes. But he was a logical man, and most of all, he knew John. He knew it was going to take John a long time to get over this.

He zoned out through the initial ceremonies, tuning in to his surroundings only when it was John's turn to give a eulogy. He watched as John walked somewhat unsteadily to the head of the grave, looking hesitant and unwilling. He got a clear look at his face – misery and loneliness etched in every line, and for a minute Sherlock hated himself for having done that to him.

"Sherlock was my flatmate," began John in a low, steady but slightly hoarse voice. His eyes were red, Sherlock saw. "I thought he was an annoying bugger at first, truth be told," John went on. "But somehow… he grew on me. No matter what anyone says, I will _not_ believe that it wasn't real, that _he_ wasn't real. He was my best friend, and I'll always believe in him."

That was it. Sherlock knew John had nothing more to say, but he couldn't bear to stick around and watch the man go through the obviously painful process of watching them shovel dirt back on the body, the corpse he thought was his best friend. Somewhere along the line John's pain had become his own, but even he knew that there was only so much he could handle, and watching John possibly break down was not one of those things.

He walked away before any of the procession had even noticed his presence.

* * *

**Week Two**

He had discarded the hat, with slight stubble that shadowed his face instead. His hair was slightly longer, and he'd bleached it off the ends. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and God, it was the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever worn. But the simplest disguises were the best.

He loitered in front of 221B Baker Street for a bit, checking a disposable mobile phone every now and then to look like he had some purpose. Every now and then he'd put it up to his ear and pretend he was talking to someone. It took a remarkable amount of restraint not to call or text John, but he managed. For John's safety.

After what seemed like forever the door opened and John walked out, hunched inside his coat and looking smaller than Sherlock remembered him being. His hair was in need of a trim and his shave had been haphazard at best, leaving nicks on his cheeks that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. The tan had faded; it didn't look like it had ever existed in the first place. There were shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep.

Sherlock waited for a few seconds before pocketing his phone and setting off after John. There was something off about the way he was walking, though, and with a jolt Sherlock realized that John was using the cane. The damned psychosomatic limp was back.

He supposed it wasn't so surprising, really. It was Sherlock who had gotten rid of the limp in the first place, and now that he was gone it made sense that it was back. After all, John's life was empty now. There were no criminals to catch, no adventures to be had, no danger… and it was slowly ruining John.

An unexpected wave of sadness washed over Sherlock. When he had decided to check in on John, he had known it would be bad, but he hadn't expected it to be quite this bad. John wasn't coping well, not at all, and Sherlock, illogically, blamed himself for it.

He looked up when he saw a black blur just out of the corner of his eye. John was getting into a cab, his movements slow, fatigued and shaky. He just couldn't seem to get a hold of himself, and Sherlock knew why. He, too, was remembering the many times they'd been in a cab together, racing off to someplace or the other, doing what they did best – completing each other.

The cab was gone, and Sherlock left.

* * *

**Week Three**

"This has got to stop, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was stern yet somehow soft, a tone that Sherlock wasn't used to hearing from his strict older brother.

"No," Sherlock replied simply, the one word loaded with everything he had never said. "I can't."

"You were almost caught last time," Mycroft reminded him. "Continuing will only put you in danger."

"I don't care." He was aware of how childish he sounded, but he _truly _didn't care.

"Are you aware of the consequences, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft sharply, knowing full well that yes, Sherlock _was_ aware. He went on anyway, "John will be killed if you are seen."

"Then I will not be seen," stated Sherlock, like it was just that easy.

"And if you are?" questioned Mycroft.

Sherlock stood to leave. "I will not be seen," he repeated. "Evening, Mycroft."

"You are only putting John's life at stake," Mycroft tried, but the door was already closing behind his stubborn little brother.

Sherlock watched his breath billow in front of him in the cold London air. He deleted the conversation from his mind, choosing to never think about it. If he wanted to see John then he was bloody well going to see John, and to hell with Mycroft. Mycroft didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand, because he had never had a John.

Some time later he found himself on Baker Street again.

His heart nearly stopped at the sight of John, who was standing but a few feet away. If Sherlock took a step forward and stretched out his right arm it would hit John. Hesitantly he moved his arm a little, but thought better of it. The movement died down, and only a telltale twitch of his fingers remained.

John did not notice. In fact, he didn't look like he was there in that reality at all, and Sherlock knew that faraway look. John still wasn't doing well, and every time he looked at John's face, every time he saw the nicks and the paleness and the misery, it drove a knife into his heart. He was the one responsible for that look on John's face, for John's grief and his loneliness.

A cab arrived and John got in with some difficulty. It looked as if he still was not used to the cane yet, and for some reason Sherlock didn't want him to be. If that cane became a part of John again it would only serve as a reminder of what he'd lost, of what they'd both lost.

Sherlock watched the back of John's bowed head in the cab, until it rounded a corner and was no longer visible. Somehow it felt like he was losing John all over again.

* * *

**Week Four**

The snipers were ready, their target set. His instructions from Moriarty had been clear, and yet he had chosen to ignore them. He had been checking in on Dr. Watson regularly, they knew. They knew he had been warned not to, that he was fully aware of the consequences. Yet, here he was.

He needed to learn a lesson, they knew. He needed to realize that Jim Moriarty was not a man to be taken lightly, even in death.

Waiting for the perfect opportunity took time, but not too much. The man was bound to leave the flat sometime, bound to want to escape from the ghosts and the phantom echoes of violin chords. The entire situation was perfect.

Too perfect, in fact. Moriarty truly had been a genius. Get Sherlock to 'die' – only he'd known that Sherlock must have had it figured out, with a plan in place. So – get Sherlock to realize that if he made any move to go back to his normal life, it was off with John's head. And it worked brilliantly… for a fortnight at least, and then Sherlock could hold himself back no longer.

Making mistakes… that was _not_ Sherlock's forte. However, emotions weren't, either, and it made sense that the two would be interconnected. So Sherlock couldn't keep himself from watching over John… and he made a mistake. A mistake he was going to pay for.

The sniper watched as John exited 221B Baker Street, and sure enough Sherlock was nearby, disguised in a business suit with close-cropped salt and pepper hair. It took some more time to make sure it was going to be a clean shot. He waited until the crowd on the sidewalk had thinned somewhat, and then took aim.

Sherlock was standing a few feet away from John, watching him intently under the pretext of talking on the phone. There was something in John's eyes that Sherlock had never seen before. The man looked haunted, like _literally_ haunted, and if Sherlock didn't know better he'd say a ghost had settled in 221B.

_Maybe it had_, he thought wryly._ Maybe, without John, that's all I am – a ghost. And John's ghost too remains there, because John is not, by any means, living or __**alive**_.

It was a depressing thought, cut short when suddenly a loud boom rang out and someone screamed. Sherlock turned, just to see someone collapsing to the floor with a hand clutched to the abdomen. A terrorist, he thought absently. Or maybe it was a target killing–

His blood froze, and he turned back to the shot person, as if in slow motion. Dull blond hair, too long, skin pale and shadows under the eyes–

_John_, supplied his brain. _It's John, it's John, it's John, he's shot, he's dying if not already dead, and it's all because you're here_. Shaking the thought off, Sherlock shoved aside the people who had gathered around, and fell to his knees besides John.

There was blood, so much blood, and on a normal day in a previous life it would have been just another crime scene with just another body but now it was John, his John, who was lying in a pool of his own blood and coughing and gasping for breath, struggling for a few more moments–

His body on autopilot, Sherlock leaned forward and gathered John into his arms. "I'm here," he told him, his voice shaking. "I'm here, John. It's – it's all right." _Of course it's not, and you know it, you know it's never going to be all right, Mycroft was right, you were wrong, too overconfident_–

John looked up and his eyes widened, and with a jolt Sherlock realized he couldn't recognize him. His disguise was too perfect, too brilliant – to John, Sherlock was dead and a stranger was holding him and talking to him like Sherlock might have.

"I don't–" began John, before dissolving into a retching fit. He spat out blood and tried again, but the stranger stopped him.

Sherlock leaned in close so that only John could hear. "It's me," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

One of John's hands was clutching weakly at Sherlock's blazer, smearing blood all over it. "Sh-sherlock?" he tried, eyes widening again, but this time with a different emotion. "You're–"

"Don't talk," instructed Sherlock flatly, cutting across him. Behind him, someone was already calling the police, and he knew that between the numerous 999 calls and the sound of the gunshot, the police was probably already well on its way. "Listen to me, John. It is all right. You are going to be fine. Do you understand me?"

But John was shaking his head, and Sherlock's heart sank. He was a doctor. He knew how hopeless it was. He knew he wasn't going to make it. "Sorry, Sherlock," he muttered, and Sherlock's heart almost stopped because John still believed in him. John simply accepted that he was alive, that he had found a way, and never doubted him for a second, because he had never stopped believing.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, John," Sherlock told him. He needed John to know. For the first time in as long as he could remember, a tear fell from his eye. It slipped down the end of his nose and onto John's face, but the doctor was almost serene, relaxed. He looked… strangely content.

"It's all fine," John wheezed, and Sherlock was thrown back to their first dinner together, to _I'm married to my work_ and _I'm not his date_ and _we can't both stare_ and of course, _it's all fine_. Suddenly, he felt the pressing need to let John know just how much he had meant to him, but all he could come up with was–

"I'd be lost without my blogger."

John smiled. "Just… find another one."

"There may be a lot of bloggers, but there's only one John," Sherlock stated quietly. "_My_ John."

He didn't know how long they sat there, surrounded by people, while he cradled John in his arms. It felt like an eternity later when Lestrade announced his arrival with a "Dear _God_," yet it also felt _too soon_. Donovan and Anderson were beginning to rope off the area, telling people to be on their way, they had it under control and it was all okay…

Except it wasn't, because John wasn't moving, he wasn't answering when Sherlock called his name, and in the end Lestrade literally had to pry John from Sherlock's tight, numb grip. He watched without really seeing as they put John on a stretcher and took him away, far away where Sherlock couldn't accompany him…

He felt something heavy fall on him and came to his senses to see the shock blanket Lestrade had just put on him. "Just breathe, sir," offered the DI, and with a dull jolt Sherlock remembered that he was supposed to be dead, and Lestrade was seeing an exhausted, traumatized businessman in his stead.

He looked up. "Lestrade," he said softly. "_Greg_."

The DI jumped and stared at Sherlock intently for a full minute, before whispering, "Bloody _hell_. Bloody fucking _hell_. _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's my fault," he murmured to no one in particular. He just needed to say it. "I should have listened to Mycroft. It's my fault John's–" He couldn't go on.

Now that Lestrade knew who it really was, he didn't know what to say. So he remained silent as Sherlock ranted under his breath.

"It could have been you," he was saying, "or Mrs. Hudson. But they chose John. I wish they hadn't. If it had been you John would be fine."

Lestrade felt the sting of the words, even if he couldn't understand what the hell Sherlock was on about. "Look, Sherlock," he tried, but at the look on Sherlock's face he gave up, instead turning to Donovan and Anderson. "You lot done, then?" he asked loudly.

"Yeah, almost," Anderson answered. "Lot of blood here."

"It was a stomach wound," said Sherlock softly, so that only Lestrade could hear. "A painful way to die. And it's my fault."

"Did you witness it?" Donovan asked him, and he blinked.

"Yes," he finally answered, before looking away. She didn't need to know who he really was.

"Shame," she said, after a few moments. "I knew him, you know. He was… he was a good man."

Sherlock had never before felt the kind of blinding rage he felt at that moment, though he knew it was unjustified. Sally Donovan may be a lot of things but it didn't take a genius to tell that in that moment she was the most sincere she'd ever been around him. Funny that it was only after John's–

He found himself unable to complete the thought.

"He used to hang out with Sherlock Holmes," Donovan told him, like he didn't already know. "After he died, it… it devastated him. It may sound cruel but this is the kindest way out that he's got."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. In any case, he wasn't sure he wanted to speak, ever again.

_She's right, though_, he thought._ This is better for John that existing the way he did_.

And that thought once again brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat. Before anyone could stop him, he threw the shock blanket off his shoulders and walked away, away from the crime scene, away from all the blood, away from _John_.

* * *

**Week Five**

"I was right, wasn't I." It wasn't a question. His tone was no longer soft. It was condescending.

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't have it within himself to do more than just sit and let his brother's angry gaze wash over him.

"Dr. Watson was a good man," declared Mycroft, the volume of his voice rising almost steadily. "He was the world for you, Sherlock, and don't you dare pretend otherwise. If you had only listened to me, he would still be alive."

"I know," muttered Sherlock. It hurt to admit it but it was true, this was all on him.

"You told me you would not be seen," Mycroft went on. "Clearly, you have overestimated yourself, brother, and it has cost your dearest friend his life."

Sherlock had had enough. He got to his feet, his fists clenched so tightly they were shaking, knuckles white. He was pretty sure his nails had made permanent marks on his palms. "You think I am not aware of this?" he demanded, his voice louder than his brother's, strong and angry. "You think I do not know what has happened? I _know_ it is my fault, Mycroft! That is why I am asking you to let me do what I want for once!"

"You _always_ do what you want," Mycroft reminded him, still calm, still composed, still seated. "And that is why John is dead."

"I don't need this," snarled Sherlock, mostly to himself. "If you insist on not helping me, then I will not be held responsible for my actions, Mycroft."

"And what, may I ask, might those actions be?"

The steely look in Sherlock's eyes would have frightened a lesser man. "Vengeance, Mycroft. I am going to kill every last one of them."

Mycroft was not surprised. He did not even try to protest. "Just think about your path, Sherlock," was all he said, suddenly sounding very tired. "Think what it will do to you."

"It will ease my conscience," Sherlock stated.

Mycroft sighed. "As you wish." Sherlock nodded to him in reply and left without the customary farewell.

He knew he was letting his brother go on this self-destructive path with absolutely nothing and no one to keep him human and pull him back when it became too much. John had been that person for Sherlock, his Jiminy Cricket, but John was dead and Mycroft was beginning to fear for anyone who stood in Sherlock's path.

* * *

**Week Six**

Sherlock had never ever in his life killed anyone before, until this day.

The body at his feet was covered in bruises and blood, eyes still open and purple marks at the throat. In a past life, if he'd had to kill someone, he'd have used a gun. Fast and efficient. Not in this life. In this life, he tortured people, relished their cries, hurt them because it distracted him from all the pain and rage inside him. And finally, he strangled them to death with his own bare hands.

He felt a pang as he looked down at the body, not at the lost life but at the memory of how he and John used to kneel in front of bodies and identify cause of death and other trivial information. Now there were going to be a lot of bodies, and there was going to be Sherlock, but there was not going to be any John and there never would be.

He spared the corpse a last, contemptuous glance and then left the abandoned building, seeking out his next target.

* * *

**Week Seven**

Thirty men so far. He had been killing a lot lately, and it felt extremely satisfying.

_Bit not good_, John would have told him. But John wasn't there, John was dead and Sherlock was going to make sure that he would be avenged. For everything John had given him, this was the least he could do.

A little voice in his mind that sounds really irritating told him that he was making Sally Donovan's prediction come true. He was the one providing the bodies. He was turning into what everyone had expected him to become – a psychopathic killer.

But it wasn't because he got some thrill from it. It was because it was the only release he had, the only way he could pour his rage and agony over John's death into something else. He knew what he had to do, and if it took him half his life, so be it. But he had absolutely no intention of dying before John was avenged, and those who had hurt him were made to pay.

* * *

**Week Eight**

The rush of the job was beginning to wash away, and it left him more and more exhausted with each passing day. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but now that there was no one to point it out to him and force some food into him, he didn't really care. His own needs were material, meaningless. John was important, John and only John, and Sherlock was not going to stop at anything to get revenge.

It hurt something fierce every time he thought of 221B and cases and their life together, every moment he had spent with John. John had literally been the only person in his life who had made him feel good about his intellect, instead of pushing him away for it, and Sherlock knew there would never be another who could do that for him. John had cared, and John had never been afraid of showing it. John had _mattered_.

And a world without John cut him deeper than anything ever had before.

* * *

**Week Nine**

Mycroft scanned the reports in front of him with an unusual weariness, before putting them aside and holding a hand to his temple. He had known what it would entail when he had decided to help Sherlock, but he had not expected _this_. Sherlock was a raging hurricane, killing left and right, and it didn't matter whether it was necessary or not. Intention did not matter to him; association with Moriarty or his men was a good enough excuse for him to murder.

Somewhere along the line Sherlock had lost his humanity, had lost everything that separated him from psychopathic killers. The line between him and Moriarty had been blurred so much it was almost indistinct, and for the first time Mycroft began fearing not for whoever opposed Sherlock, but for Sherlock himself.

* * *

**Week Ten**

Sherlock watched the life drain out of the man's eyes, watched him twitch and turn and attempt to struggle. He maintained his grip on his throat, deliberately applying not enough pressure in all the wrong places, hoping to cause as much as he could before death claimed him.

With each passing day and each body he dropped, he got closer and closer to the center of Moriarty's web. It was all going better than he could ever have hoped for – he was working faster, more efficiently, more ruthlessly, and without John there was nothing that could stop him. There was no John anymore for criminals to use against him, to force him to stop his activities. There was nothing that could stop him, and he was determined to outrun death itself if he had to.

* * *

**Week Twenty**

He had succeeded, he had done it. The sniper who had pulled the trigger on John was bound to a chair in front of him, helpless and struggling. But he wasn't going anywhere, and he knew it. If Moriarty had been a great planner, then Sherlock was even better.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, pacing back and forth in front of his prisoner, "did you know John Watson? Did you know who John Watson was as a man, what he meant to the people around him? Are you aware of the consequences of what you've done?"

"I was following my orders," the man answered simply. He had stopped struggling. There was no fear in his eyes, only resignation to his fate, and that infuriated Sherlock.

The man staggered in the aftermath of the blow to his face, but it did not change his demeanor any. "But did you _know_," Sherlock roared at him, "exactly _what_ it is you've done?"

"I killed Dr. John Watson, like I was told to do."

"Told? Told by _who_?" demanded Sherlock, with another blow.

The man simply smirked, and Sherlock decided it was time to cut the discussion short. "Tell me," he said, his voice suddenly a low growl as he held the man's head back, exposing his throat and the knife glinting millimeters away, "are you aware of what your actions have cost me?"

For the first time Sherlock saw fear in his prisoner's eyes, fear because Sherlock was going to make his painful. Relentlessly he pulled on, "You have cost me the one person I would have done anything for. You have cost me my _humanity_. And Sherlock Holmes without his humanity–" the knife pressed closer into his throat, "is a man to be feared. I am your worst nightmare."

He left the building three hours later, his path clearer than it had ever been.

* * *

**Week Fifty**

The shot to his stomach was going to become fatal if he did nothing about it, and yet he refused to move. A few feet away was Moriarty's right hand man, as dead as Moriarty himself. Sherlock had not waited when he had found his opportunity, he had not played with his victim like he had done with the ones before. He had simply attacked.

He had not expected to be expected, though. It was a brief struggle but a fatiguing one. Sebastian Moran was stronger than Sherlock had anticipated, and being Moriarty's sidekick, was a lot smarter than the rest of his employees.

Two gunshots. Only two. One to Moran's head, courtesy of Sherlock, and one to Sherlock's torso a nanosecond before, courtesy of Moran.

It hadn't taken long, and Sherlock was grateful for it as he sat with his back against the dusty wall. He held his hand to his wound and then in front of his eyes, noting the amount of blood on it absently. He had already lost a lot, and he knew he didn't have much time left.

A chuckle escaped him at the irony of the situation. In avenging John, he had forgotten everything that John had stood for, and now here he was, dying almost exactly the same way John had. It made sense, he supposed, in some really twisted, sick way.

Mycroft would be disappointed. Oh well.

Sherlock didn't know if there was an afterlife. All logic suggested there wasn't one, yet where was the proof of that? There was no proof either way – either it existed, or it didn't. But if it did, and John was there–

John was going to be so disappointed in him, he realized. All that effort to keep him from becoming a psychopath, all gone to waste. John was going to be _absolutely furious_.

And Sherlock didn't care. John was gone, he was avenged. And that was all that mattered, in the end.

* * *

**Yeah. So. *clears throat nervously* First Sherlock fic. Feedback is appreciated :)**

**Every time you review - JOHN LIVES.**

**-Peace x**

**PS: In case any of you are unhappy with the ending, I have a _tiny_ alternate ending thingy written up... so just me know if you want that instead.**


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